


Unmemorabilia

by Ygrain



Series: Connor Shepard [6]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard's less-than-awesome moments: the living legend still has a human side. Various PoVs and a varying degree of angst and/or lulz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus

" _Shepard… Shepard…"_

The voice connects with his consciousness only gradually, piercing a haze of deep sleep, and the self-realisation builds up even more slowly.

_Shepard._

" _Commander, you must wake up! Now!"_

Finally, he becomes aware of the persisting comm.

_Comm. Some emergency._

' _Yeah_ ', he mutters but no sound issues and his lips feel stiff. As he moves his head, he becomes aware of pain in his cheeks:  _sore, raw skin_. Confused, he raises his hand to touch the spot: a clumsy gesture of the limb feeling heavy like lead.

The hand touches something on the temple that is not supposed to be there:  _a piece of plastic, and a wire._

He abruptly opens his eyes. The hazy shapes swirl nauseatingly before they sharpen and focus.

Some kind of medlab – hightech, if he's ever seen one, stuffed with devices and apparatuses he's never seen, either, and the function of which he can't even guess.

He can guess, however, the function of the tubes hanging from a panel just above him: the hoarse feeling in his throat only confirms that.  _There would also be some down_ there,  _I suppose_.  _What the hell…_

Raising his head, he can see a multitude of sensors stuck to his chest, and feels some more on his temples and forehead; as his heart starts racing, a monitor on his right issues a warning signal.

" _Shepard! Can you hear me?"_

A female voice, vaguely familiar.

"Yes," he manages to creak. He turns his head to the comm, wondering how long he must have been out, feeling so weak and stiff and intubed all over. "What's going on? What happened?"

_What happened to me?_

" _There's no time for this! Listen, Shepard. The facility's under attack. Someone's hacked the security mechs and they're massacring the crew. I've blocked the entrance so they won't get to you but you must get out on your own. I know you are not fully healed yet but you must get out of the bed! Now!"_

It doesn't make much sense to him but the urgency in her voice sounds convincing. He sits up: the effort has him sweating but he is feeling better by every second:  _have I been given stimulants?_ "Who are you?" he asks the woman as he removes the sensors from his head and chest. "What is this place?"

"I'm Miranda Lawson," she replies with a hint of irritation, "Shepard, you must hurry, we don't have much time!"

"Give me a sec, I can't run about with a cannula in my vein," he grumbles, realizing there is a thick needle, with multiple ducts, in his left wrist.

"Just pull it out and apply pressure for a while," she instructs him impatiently while in the background, he can now hear the distinct sound of the short rounds of a shotgun. "Be glad that you don't have to deal with the catheter on your own."

_Oh, thanks for reminding me._

The needle slides out of the vein and he quickly presses his thumb on the spot, noticing several similar punctures on the wrist, some fresh, other already scarring.

_Scarring…_

The bed suddenly as if bounces under him.

Still pressing the vein, he turns his hand with its back up, staring in disbelief at the  _unmarred, unscarred_ complexion. Following up along the arm, still the same sight: the extensive scarring after he had been burnt with thresher acid on Akuze, is gone.

All of his scars are gone.

Alarmed, he runs his hands over his face:  _the left temple, the cheek, neck… no scars…_

_Do I even look the way I did?_

_What…_

" _Shepard!"_

"Yeah, I'm going," he mutters, examining his palms, elbows, knees, heels… all just smooth, soft skin, like a baby's, without callusing.

_What's this supposed to mean?_

" _Get to the locker next to the door, there's an armour and a gun for you. I'll tell you the code."_

He nearly topples as he gets off the bed: stimulants or not, his body feels as if unaccustomed to moving.

_Great. From bed right into a fight while feeling like shit._

_But why…_

Looking at the bed, he realizes it is a unique piece, like a blend between a hospital bed and a gym machine, apparently designed to easily change shape and position, while the patient is strapped –

_Strapped?_

His stomach churns in a fit of sudden anguish.

" _Shepard!"_

The woman, Miranda, has to repeat the code twice before he manages to open the locker; the sounds of fight are now audible from somewhere outside, quite close. Irritated, Shepard struggles with the hardsuit: the old routine feels strangely distanced, and the armour has several gadgets he hasn't seen before.

Miranda nagging him to hurry doesn't exactly help, either.

_You'll have to do quite some explaining when we're done here, woman._

He takes a deep breath. Finally, the inner membrane of the hardsuit adheres to his body like a second skin. Armed and armoured, he feels much more confident than just a while ago. His movements become more coordinated, his reflexes start kicking in.

He checks the gun one last time – again, a model he is unfamiliar with but close enough to the one he used previously.

The shooting outside has ceased but it is impossible to establish who has won. Taking cover behind the doorframe, Shepard says: "I'm ready. Unseal the door, Miranda."

The door slides into the wall, obscuring the symbol of a slim hexagon, enhanced on both sides with another line. Behind the door, there is a makeshift barricade and a hall, its floor strewn with bodies, humans and mechs alike: both bear the identical mark, yellow on black, of the hexagon like an eye of darkness.

* * *

The bullet stops on his shield in a whirl of blue just before his face and Shepard quickly dives for the cover again.

_Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy._

Forcing his hands to calm down, he takes another chance at a shot: it takes him three to bring a single mech down.

_Damn, Shepard, you're badly out of shape._

Whatever it is that has been pumped into his system to keep him going, he can tell from the unmistakable signs that he is even worse off than he had expected. His reaction times are terribly slow, the usual precision requires way more concentration, and very fast movements bring about instants of sudden dizziness.

_Dammit, this is going to be tough._

A five mechs' concentrated attack follows and its outcome is much closer than he would have liked. His vision blurring, he slides against a crate to take a brief rest.  _Dammit._ Angrily, he slaps into the armour plating on his thigh.  _Pull yourself together, Shepard. You've been through worse._

_Have I?_

He actually cannot be sure: one moment, there are flames and explosions of the Normandy's agony, the darkness of the open space as he is rotating helplessly, trying to seal the rupture in his hardsuit, his lungs painfully lacking air – the next one, the white lab, sensors and tubes.

 _Not quite,_ he realizes. There  _was_  something in between – half-waking in pain and confusion. A man and a woman leaning over him, hands holding him down. ' _Don't try to move, Shepard.'_ Female voice, with an already familiar diction.

_Miranda. That must have been her. Very pretty, if I recall correctly._

Her voice on the comm now guides him relentlessly through the corridors, until it is suddenly cut off in the static.

_Great. Which way now?_

He passes several doors, leading into empty living quarters. One is blocked by a body in the doorway: a woman, her face frozen in an expression of horror, and on her shoulder, a yellow hexagon on black.

_Where have I seen it? Is it some corporation logo?_

_And why am I in a private facility instead of Alliance?_

In the room, the screensaver on a console displays the same sign, slowly rotating.

Shepard hesitates. For the time being, there is no shooting nearby, no movement… and he is tired of not knowing.

Crossing the body, he brings the console to life.

The next moment he wishes he hadn't, staring at the date at the bottom of the screen. He leans closer, then withdraws with a snort of refusal.

_Two…years? How could this be possible?_

Automatically checking for sounds from the outside, he displays the recent documents. 11/2/2185, 11/1/2185, 10/27/2185, 10/26/2185, 10/26/2185, 10/22/2185… all the way back, year 2184, 2183…

No older entries.

 _Could I have been out for two fucking_ years?  _Or is someone trying to fool me around? Why?_

He scans through the document titles: most refer to some Lazarus project, with various medicinal specifications… and quite a few sport his name.

_Was I subject to some specific treatment? How bad off was I after I got spaced?_

Shaking his head, he is about to leave when a title catches his eye:  _Related Cerberus Projects._

His mouth goes completely dry.

_Cerberus._

His memories race like mad: the death trap on Edolus, Kahoku's body and the sick experiments on Binthu, the paramilitary base on Nepheron…

_That's where I saw that sign._

Engraved on several caches, not in colour; that's why he didn't recognize it immediately.

_Cerberus._

_Jerry Toombs' half-mad eyes and trembling voice, and the blazing sun of Akuze_.

Stepping away from the console, he realizes that his hands are trembling.  _Those_...  _What have they been doing with me? For two years?_

He nearly trips over a chair and then staggers again as he swirls too quickly in response to a glimpse of movement, which turns out to be his own image in the mirror on the wall.

The shock of it all makes him almost physically sick. Sinking into the chair, he hastily struggles with the helmet and then gulps the free air, even though he is aware that the difference is merely psychological.

Looking up, he meets the eyes of his image: dark and strangely hard in a pale face, marked with unhealed rectangular scars. The shaved – or rather, depilated – head only highlights the feeling of estrangement.

_My eyes…_

There is something weird about his eyes.

 _You got spaced,_  reason tells him.  _Eyes and vacuum don't go well together._

_But I survived. I can't have been exposed too long._

His mouth is so dry that he cannot swallow.

_But if I was recovered soon afterwards, what am I doing here?_

_You won't find out if you don't get moving, idiot. You survived then, you have to survive now. Get out from here, wherever that might be, and worry later. Your eyes work, and that is what matters._

Easier said than done, though: his hands tremble so badly that he can't set the helmet right.

_Quit panicking, Shepard. Get your ass moving. Now. Suck it up, Commander, and go…_

_Which way?_

_Follow the gunfire, idiot._

Where there's shooting, there are survivors – and possibly also answers _._

* * *

Survivors and answers.

Not so much later, he has both, and had he not been through the initial shock already, in his weakened state, he might have collapsed then and there.

' _You were dead as dead can be… the first time I saw you, you were just meat and tubes.'_

_Now, that's the one thing I didn't really need to know right now._

Another wave of hacked mechs is coming and Shepard steadies his hand against the handrail.

' _We reconstructed you.'_

_Reconstructed._

_That much for the supposedly short exposure._

He takes out the leading mech while Jacob Taylor uses his biotics to get another flying.

_Why are you wearing the Cerberus symbol, Taylor, if you've been Alliance? And when do you intend to show me your true colours at all, huh?_

"You first," he nods at Taylor when they're done with the mechs, "I'm the new guy here."

"Of course, Commander," the black man responds, and if he suspects the true reason, he doesn't let it show.

Actually, if he didn't know that Taylor is Cerberus, he might be inclined to trust him a bit more; the man does show traits that Shepard has learned to trace and assess among his men during his years of service – traits indicating honesty.

_Yet, he is Cerberus, and he's not telling everything._

To give Taylor the credit, he is well trained: the two of them slice through the mechs in the service tunnels without any substantial problems, operating like a coordinated team.

One more mech fight on their way to pick up a survivor who called them from the security centre, though, and Shepard's suspicions are further fuelled. The doctor who claims his deal on Shepard's revival has evasive eyes, and Taylor apparently doesn't like him much, either. "Why do you even have security clearance to access the system?" he asks, frowning.

_And why did you claim that the service tunnels were safe? If you can access the system, you must have seen they weren't, or not?_

"I was trying to  _help_!" Wilson retorts, offended. "I got  _hurt_ , remember?"

_A very convenient leg wound. Who do you suggest was the one who hacked the system, by the way?_

The doctor's answer is so predictable that Shepard almost laughs, even without Taylor's dismissal.  _If it was Miranda, she would be royally stupid to risk the life of her oh-so-precious test subject when all she needed was to program the mechs to leave me alone._

_Or was she so confident that I wouldn't get killed?_

_This is_ Cerberus _you are dealing with. They don't play nice, and they don't play fair. Never forget that, Shepard._

_I'm not having either of you guys on my six._

Which immediately turns out an issue, as the doctor apparently intends to tail behind the two of them.

 _A moment of truth._ "I'm not letting you behind my back. I don't trust you – either of you."

"Come on, Shepard! We need to get moving, to the shuttles –"

Taylor cuts off the doctor with a gesture. He steps forward, his posture signalling that he has made a decision. Shepard's hand on the gun tenses.

"Commander," the man says slowly, "we need to work together to get out of this alive. Will you trust us more if I tell you who we work for?"

"That will depend on what you tell me."  _More than you know._ "Go ahead, Taylor."

Wilson looks as if he wanted to protest but then reconsiders. "Your call, your ass, Jacob."

Taylor doesn't heed him. "We're with Cerberus, Commander." His eyes never leave Shepard's but he definitely follows the gun with his peripheral vision, as well.

So does Shepard with Taylor's gun, and with Wilson, seemingly casually leaning against the wall. "And that is supposed to make me trust you?" he asks coldly. "Previously you said you were Alliance."

"I was." Still, no flinching. "I quit after Eden Prime. Humanity was under attack and the Alliance didn't do a thing, only you did… and Cerberus. That's why I joined them, and that's why we've brought you back. You are important, Commander, none of us would ever harm you."

 _Except the guy who hacked your system._ Other than that, the confession does sway him a little.  _An honest man fighting for the wrong cause? Such cases do happen._ "Still not trusting you, but I'll play along, for the time being. We do need to get out of here."

Taylor nods. "To the shuttle bay, then." He frowns in concern. "I hope we'll meet Miranda there."

Wilson scowls to that behind his back and Shepard wonders what might be the cause of the obvious animosity.  _Are you Cerberus guys always like that, at each other's throat? Perhaps I might let you sort this out between yourselves and be gone on my own._

It turns out, they are, and Wilson is dead even before his body hits the floor.

"Miranda! What are you  _doing_?" Taylor spurts in shock.

Shepard's memory is correct, Miranda Lawson is truly beautiful… and she is also a cold-blooded killer. She doesn't even pay Wilson a second glance. "He betrayed us," she states without emotions. "He hacked the mechs… sent some more to take me out when he figured that I was helping you…" with a slight nod, she acknowledges Shepard's presence while ignoring his gun pointed at her. "Now that you're here, we can leave."

 _Not so quickly._ "Where to, and what do you want from me?"

Already turning to leave, the woman pauses, one perfect brow slightly rising.

Taylor clears his throat. "He knows, Miranda, I told him."

"Oh, Jacob. You and your conscience." Yet, smirking as she says that, she is looking at Shepard, not Taylor.

_Does she know that I messed with that console?_

"Well, Commander", she replies, "now we're going to take an evac shuttle to access the transport ship, and then we're going to travel to another Cerberus facility. The Illusive Man will want to talk to you, and he will tell you all that you need to know. Are you coming, or would you prefer to rot with the mechs?"

 _Cerberus at its best._ "What about the rest of your crew? There could still be survivors."  _Why do I even bother?_

"If there were any, they would already be here. Besides, the only one worth saving is you, anyway."

Avoiding his eyes, Taylor follows her to one of the small shuttles. Shepard curses under his breath but has no other choice: even if he took another shuttle, where would he go? He pauses only to look at Wilson's body one last time: although his total number of kills is probably much higher than Lawson's, he never executed a man in cold blood.

_Executed. Was he really a traitor, or did she kill him so that he couldn't talk?_

_Man, now I can certainly understand your beef with her. There's definitely something rotten under that pretty package._

* * *

Once seated in the shuttle, Shepard is feeling the symptoms of the stimulants and adrenaline wearing off: dizziness, nausea, palpitations, sweat. His stomach starts revolting.

_Gosh, I think I'm going to puke…_

_Or worse. Faint. With two Cerberus operatives on board, out of which at least one is clearly capable of anything. Not a good prospect in the least._

Gulping for air, Shepard removes the helmet and bends his head to his knees, hoping that the increase in blood supply will keep him from fainting.  _And if I'm gonna paint the floor, so be it._

Of course, his condition doesn't go unnoticed.

"Shepard? Shepard!" Lawson leaves her seat and rummages through the medkit, but as she kneels down and takes hold of Shepard's hand to access the application duct of his hardsuit, he pulls it away. "No drugs. I've had enough of these."  _And I trust you only as far as I can throw you._

"Don't be stupid," she says with that tone of cold superiority he has already come to loathe, "your waking was far from what I had planned and it is only starting to affect you now." She reaches for his hand again. "You need to –"

_Damn you, bitch._

She finds herself looking into the muzzle of Shepard's gun, pointed at her face from the distance of several centimetres.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me," he articulates with effort.

The black-haired operative winks rapidly, once, and pulls slightly away. "I haven't spent two years of my life reconstructing you to distribute you something harmful now, you know." Her perfect lips set into her characteristic smirk while her eyes remain as cold and impassive as before. "Or perhaps I was too optimistic over your brain tests, after all."

Gulping to keep his stomach under control, Shepard doesn't move the gun. "I've sprayed the walls with the brains of the likes of you a couple of times, so you must forgive that I am disinclined to trust you and your motives which you have refused to explain me."

Even before he finishes, he realizes that the fate of her fellow operatives means nothing to the woman.  _She shot that doctor from not even a metre, after all, and didn't even blink._

"You did," she nods as if she was commenting the results of an ancient football match. "But they were inconsequential." She gets up elegantly, ignoring the gun. "As for those motives you don't trust, you will have to wait till you meet the Illusive Man. I'll do the necessary after you pass out, and if you want to be sick meanwhile, be my guest."

" _Miranda._ " Taylor turns in the pilot's seat, his reproachful tone changing as he addresses Shepard. "Commander… I know this must be difficult for you but believe me, we mean you no harm."

_Is he genuine, or is it just a variation of the old "good and bad cop" game?_

Desperately, Shepard realizes that he  _wants_  Taylor to be genuine: to have at least one human being in that vipers' nest he's currently heading into. And so he only repeats: "I won't have any drugs unless strictly necessary, and that is not now."

With a shrug, Lawson resumes her seat. "As you wish. I'd just like to point out that we reconstructed you as a human, not a cyborg. You will need to sleep, eventually."

Facing the obvious, Shepard doesn't bother answering. Taylor sighs aloud but doesn't comment, either.

The rest of the way to the transport ship goes in silence.

* * *

Lawson exits the shuttle without as much as a glance at him and Shepard hears her curb someone's questions and give out curt orders. Taylor stops on his way out and reaches his hand to help Shepard get up. He ignores it and gets up on his own, which, of course, is a stupid mistake, because he staggers and his stomach performs a dangerous somersault.

Undisturbed, Taylor sneaks his arm under Shepard's shoulder to steady him. "Lean on me, Commander. We'll walk only shortly."

The distance from the hangar to the living quarters leaves him bathing in sweat, and his heroic effort to keep his stomach in check turns out vain even before the door of the living quarters close behind them. Without a word, Taylor manoeuvres him to a chair and fetches some towels to clean the mess. "'Been sick after stimulants a couple of times myself," he remarks sympathetically. He checks the locker next to the door and nods contently. "That should settle your stomach alright," he produces a can of Coke but then hesitates. "Though, I should perhaps ask Miranda if you can already –"

Not letting him finish, Shepard snatches the can from his hand and tears away the seal. The familiar bittersweet taste overwhelms him with its intensity and for a moment, it seems that the Coke will follow whatever had occupied his stomach previously. With his eyes closed, Shepard concentrates on breathing evenly, feeling the nausea slowly recede.

Next to him, Taylor shuffles. "Miranda is not a bad person," he says softly but firmly. "She's just…"

… _a cold bitch_.

 _Had she said that my men on Akuze were inconsequential... I don't know what I might have done_.

The black man clears his throat. "I'll help you out of the hardsuit, right?"

Shepard lets him even though it makes him uncomfortable. Being helped out after an action never bothered him before but such camaraderie feels out of place with someone from Cerberus. Yet, the familiar routine has a soothing effect…  _trust-inducing, soldier to soldier._

_Which may be exactly why this Jacob is doing it._

When Taylor helps him get up from the chair, he doesn't protest.

"Bed or bathroom?" the Cerberus operative asks.

"Bathroom," Shepard replies while his body screams 'bed' inaudibly.

Once alone in the confined space, he almost shuns from the look of his own face in the mirror… _if it's still my face, that is._

Leaning closer to the cold glass, he inspects those raw rectangular cuts on his cheeks: during the fight, some of them opened, leaving bloody trails on the skin. Underneath… underneath protrudes something that is not supposed to be there: some synthetic material covered with tissue. Suddenly nauseous again, Shepard jabs at it with his finger but cannot really tell how it should feel or not, the sensation overcome with the soreness of the raw skin. Then, his eyes are drawn again by the impossibly smooth, soft palm of his hand, devoid of any calluses of adult life.

 _Reconstructed_.

His breath is beginning to hitch.  _My hands_ …

The cold eyes watch him back from the mirror.

_My eyes._

Slowly, he raises his hand to his right eye. Pausing, he takes a deep breath and holds the eye lids with the fingers of his left hand –  _cold, trembling_  – and pokes the right forefinger into the orb.

Slick, hard surface. No pain.

_I've poked into my eye and it's not mine._

More sick than ever before, he heaves again and again, painfully, with an empty stomach, holding to the washbasin as if it could save him from drowning. He sinks to his knees, exhausted, his eyes welling and nose running, irritated by the heaving.

A hesitant rap on the door. "Commander? You alright?"

He has to take a few breaths before his is able to produce a voice: "Just sick again. I'll get a shower."

He ignores what Taylor says to that and crawls into the cabin, as cramped and claustrophobic as those things go on a ship, but now at least it makes it easier for him to stand there. He lets the water wash away the medical smells, the blood and tears, even the taste of bile in his mouth, and ignores its stinging on the raw skin. He stays there until the water stops automatically –  _longer than on military ships_ , he notices _–_ and sets the air drying for 'cool', afraid that warmth might make him even dizzier than he is.

When he finally exits the bathroom, shuddering, it takes Taylor a single glance to swallow whatever he meant to say and rush to support him.

Being half-carried to the nearest bunkbed, Shepard finally dares the gamble. "No more drugs, please… Don't… let her mess with me." ' _Five years in the Alliance', please, let it mean a thing…_

"You need to rest, Commander," he hears as if from a distance when being laid down. "You'll be OK, you just need to rest… and I'll do what I can."

* * *

When he wakes up, he is alone in the room, his head heavy and aching, his mouth parched, and he barely manages to scramble to the bathroom in time. Only when he returns to the bed he notices some drinks and tubed food on the side table, as well as a message:

–  _Commander Shepard:_

_Jacob insisted that you refused any treatment, so if you have any issues being left without hydration and catheter, sort it out with him, please. I've prepared you some nutrition that should help you recuperate, and if I may be so bold, I strongly advise against burdening your digestive tract with anything else for now. Even so, proceed slowly, unless you are still hell-bent on hurting yourself some more. If you are unable to keep it down, or should you arrive at the conclusion that medical treatment might actually be meant for your benefit, be so kind and deign to meet me in the medbay._

–  _M. Lawson_

Shepard checks the tubes and bottles: pasted food, with a balanced content of nutrients and minerals. Little wonder, given that his guts haven't seen a piece of solid food for –

He quickly curbs the thought, unable to deal with it just yet.

_First things first, Shepard. Get back in shape, find out what they want from you._

Shuddering, he involuntarily digs his fingers into his forearms.

_Get over yourself. Meet Her Majesty the Ice Queen in the medbay, find out what they have done to you…_

The flesh under his fingers turns pale.

_First things first…_

He opens one of the bottles and takes a small sip. A bland, salt-sweet taste, undoubtedly balanced just for his benefit. He gives up after a third sip.

Discouraged, he looks at the tubes.

_Fight, Shepard, fight. That's the way you wanted it, right?_

_And don't forget to thank Jacob, even though he could have done it just to gain your trust._

He opens the tube. The taste is as horrible as he expected.

_Welcome to a new life, Shepard._

Of course he is sick again and after a third unsuccessful attempt, has to go humbly to the medbay.


	2. Under the Eyes of Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview with Shepard's CO doesn't go exactly as Shepard would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the occasion of a New Years's Eve
> 
> Captain Valeriy Tarasov, Yelena Denisova and Toshio Iaeda are original characters from my Akuze story Long Days, Long Night. This chapter predates Akuze.

There are no restraints on the chair, yet Shepard feels as if he was about to undergo torture.

And since it is all his own doing, he cannot blame anyone but himself.

Tarasov takes his time, shuffling through the report he has read before.

_Letting me stew._

Finally, the Captain raises his grey-blue eyes from the PDA. "So… Lieutenant. Despite Corporal Iaeda's… colourful… record, you would still recommend his promotion for Sergeant?"

 _A moment of truth._ "Yes, sir."

"Even with that recent incident."

Tarasov watches him without winking, as if the Old Wolf suddenly transformed into an Old Python, and Shepard does his best not to squirm in his chair. "Yes, sir."

"You are aware that there are such who think he shouldn't have become a Corporal in the first place."

 _Yes, sir. Lieutenant Samekh. Even before his pants returned from the laundry with a stick in the rear part._ Shepard takes a deep breath. "May I say something off the record, sir?"

Tarasov's brows knit in quite a daunting fashion but he nods.

"I am well aware of Corporal Iaeda's … specific behaviour."  _Wow, what a way to put it_. "I admit that his pranks sometimes go further than they should but this is only outside action. You have seen his records, sir… a mind like his needs to be constantly occupied, needs challenges. He plays a jackass when he is bored, or nervous."  _Oh, great, now I'm making Toshio look unstable._ "But that's, er, just outside action, sir. Even when we were in some pretty bad sh-  _situation_ , sir, he knows what to do and how to make men follow his orders. You have my report, sir: the fact that Segeant Chen and most of her squad survived the ambush is for a great part owing to Iaeda."

Tarasov's stare never wavers.

Shepard is beginning to sweat in his uniform.  _Oh, fuck it._ "If not for the pranks, Iaeda would have been, should have been, a Lieutenant by now. His promotion to Sergeant is long overdue."

"Corporal Iaeda's records are impressive," Tarasov admits slowly, "But officers are required to maintain certain… standards. His behaviour towards his superiors is far from commendable... and here I don't mean just Lieutenant Samekh."

Sensing a dangerous ground, Shepard quickly objects _:_  "Detaining the promotion he deserves will help nothing, sir, rather the contrary."

"Even when that promotion is suggested by his closest friend?"

 _Bastard._  "I believe the reasons I stated in my report are objective."

He'd almost think that Tarasov's heroic moustache conceals a small smile as he nods. Then, however, the Captain breaks the eye contact for the first time as he says: "Now that we are speaking off the record… there is something I have to ask you, Lieutenant. There have been rumours of you and Corporal Iaeda… fraternizing."

Shepard feels the heat rising to his cheeks. "No, sir. We're not… we're not."

Tarasov watches him with something which looks suspiciously much like " _Superior Officer's Guide 2.0 / Advice for dealing with junior officers: fatherly attitude, p. 26_ ", if there ever was such a brochure. "We all understand that it is… human… to seek some relief from the stress of our profession, and most officers will look aside if there is nothing too… obvious."

 _You mean, something like fondling each other just before the Staff Commander's cabin._ Despite his best effort, Shepard can positively tell that he is turning red all over, even as Tarasov continues: "In the light of such… activities… your support of Corporal Iaeda's promotion might be found… questionable."

 _You're so very dead, Toshio. And you too, Yela._ "That… was not what it seemed, sir. We're not… I mean, neither of us is actually into men. We, uh…"  _Hell, Shepard, if you can't stop blushing, at least don't stammer_. "We were drunk, sir."

The change of Tarasov's expression makes Shepard perspire profoundly. "Are you telling me, Lieutenant, that this was yet another of Corporal Iaeda's inane pranks and that he enticed his senior officer into participating?"

 _Idiot, idiot, idiot._ "Er… no, sir. It wasn't Corporal Iaeda's fault –"  _Not entirely_. "There – there was a lot of daring on the New Year's Eve party… and bets… and we lost," he adds unnecessarily, and lamely, as Tarasov's eyes slightly narrow, and he realizes his mistake.

_Shit. Now he's going to ask what the bet was –_

–  _or worse, who dared us –_

Then, however, Tarasov hesitates and Shepard can almost read the thought forming behind the high forehead:  _do I_  really  _want to know the nature of that bet?_

_No, you don't. Believe me. I wish I didn't myself._

Feeling like a chicken hypnotized by a snake –  _where do those reptilian metaphors come from today?_  – Shepard barely dares to breathe.  _Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask,_  he attempts to hypnotize back, with no better idea what else to do to get out of the shit he got himself into.

As it seems, it works.

Tarasov clears his throat and drops his eyes to the PDA. "So… you and Corporal Iaeda have served together ever since the basic training, right? Together with Corporal Denisova?"

For one terrible moment, it occurs to Shepard that Tarasov already  _knows._ "Yes, sir," he says cautiously, and as he hopes, neutrally.

Again that smile hidden behind the moustache. "Hm… stranger things have happened between friends, I guess. However, I suggest that you are more careful with your tequilas in the future, Lieutenant."

 _And with those two damned jackasses._ "Yes, sir."

"Fine. – Now, back on the record: Lieutenant Shepard, do you recommend Corporal Iaeda for promotion, and proclaim that you have no vested personal interest in this?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Very well, then. I'll sign this… despite Iaeda's oddities, which I highly disapprove of." A quick look from under the bushy brows. "If he screws a thing, I'll hold you personally responsible, is that clear, Shepard?"

"Yes, sir."

His feeling of relief is quickly extinguished as Tarasov adds without looking up from the PDA: "Though I must admit that seeing Staff Commander Huxley's expression was priceless." He makes a pause, to let the realisation sink in. "That's all, Lieutenant, dismissed. I do suggest, though, that you take your time before you leave… colour red doesn't go well with your blues."

"…sir."

The chuckle at Shepard's creaking tone is definitely more terrifying than the threat.

Finding out that one's CO has a sense of humour would be much more heartening without the realisation that the said CO must have witnessed the outcome of the New Year's Eve bet, as well.


	3. In the Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Akuze shoreleave on Terra Nova, mentioned in Long Days, Long Nights. The original characters are featured in the same story.

Lying on her belly on her bed, Yelena is slowly waggling her bare feet, paging through the various accommodation brochures on her omnitool. "This one looks good," she magnifies the image and projects it on the wall.

"Wherever, Yelochka." Toshio, sprawling on his bed just in his boxers, stretches a little. "As long as there is a double bed for you and me…"

"Nah, forget it, Iaeda," she pokes her tongue at him. "You know –"

"–you only go for blondes, got it. 'Was just checking if you haven't had a change of heart." He fakes a musing expression. "Though, I think I still have some of that hair colour left…"

Yelena groans at the memory of the ugly yellow, and Connor, alarmed, raises his head from his 'tool where he is toying with something. "Please, don't," he begs exasperatedly. "My eyes still hurt…"

Toshio's face lights up with interest and Connor facepalms. "Don't even tell me what you have come up with  _now_."

"Of course I won't be telling you, the priiiize will be solely mine," he leers, and jerks aside just in time to evade Yelena's boot aimed at his head. He grabs hold of it and pretends to be pouring something from it. "After that, I'll be celebrating my victory, drinking champagne from her lovely boot… unless I suffocate from the stench."

Yelena almost springs from the bed. "You – that's not true! I use deodorant –"

Toshio, the bastard, laughs so much that his eyes get teary. That is a mistake, because the other boot lands on his belly and he huffs air. "Ugh. You've just killed me."

"See the corpse talking," Connor mutters, and springs his hand to prevent the flying boot from knocking the glasses from the table. "Hey, did you just attack your senior officer, Iaeda?"

Yelena and Toshio snort in unison: rocking on the chair, with one leg over the table to keep stability, Connor is not exactly a book case of an officer, not to mention the lack of the uniform jacket over his tanktop. The said jacket is hanging from the rail of the upper bunkbed where David Sayalal comfortably snorts, undisturbed by what is going on below.

Rolling his eyes, Connor puts his feet on the floor. With a low arc, he tosses the boot back to Yelena; at his unspoken behest, Toshio relinquishes the other. "Really, Yelochka, I don't care. Pick whichever resort you like." He slightly hesitates. "But we have plenty of time… if you wanted to travel elsewhere…"

Yelena inadvertently grits her teeth.  _No, I'm not going to Elysium. And especially not with the two of you in tow._

She jabs at her omnitool to confirm the reservation. "Marienville, Terra Nova it is. The place's called  _Blue Sea_. Get your swimming trunks, both of you, we're going to have fun."

"'Will have to buy some," Toshio informs her. "Will you help me choose? I can't stand ill-fitting wear."

"I'll be most happy to cut off any outsticking bits," she retorts. "Might improve your IQ quite a bit."

"As if he had any," Connor quips in.

Toshio rises on his elbow. "Says the guy who got torn to shreds in the last game. I might actually lend you some points, Shepard, to give you at least a sliver of hope of ever winning against the galactic chess master."

"He meant bits, not IQ," Yelena says sweetly.

The next moment, she wishes she had bitten off her tongue, since in response, Toshio very predictably starts getting up to undoubtedly prove them wrong. "Don't bother," she musters an uninterested tone, "'seen one, seen all."

" _All_  of the crew?" Toshio performs the imaginary picking up of his dropped jaw. "Wow, Yelochka, I never knew you had such  _depths_."

For a moment, she wants to hit him really hard as he is standing there and sneering, so handsome and cocksure. "Oh, I'm sure that your score of fucking through the ranks is much better than mine. Do let us know how you were faring when you get to the Old Wolf himself, I can't wait to hear what exciting regs you two moan."

Connor chuckles. "Should it ever come to that, I want to see a recording or I won't believe it. – No, this is not a bet," he waves off Toshio opening his mouth for some undoubtedly crazy suggestion. Getting up from his chair, he stretches and reaches for his jacket, the muscles rippling on his bare arms.

 _One of the advantages of being in the army,_ Yelena thinks and quickly looks aside, not to be caught ogling,  _a lot of fine muscle on display._

Fine muscle, fine guys… the only thing that made her career choice tolerable for _mamochka_.

When she announced her wish to enter the freshly opened biotic academy at the age of sixteen and join the army afterwards, Anna Konstantinovna Denisova was even madder than when Yelena cut off her long braids at fourteen. Soldiering was not the future she had envisioned for her younger daughter, and ever since Zhenya met Mick O'Toole and settled down on the Earth to produce little O'Tooles, she set her mind on steering her wild Yelochka onto the same course.

Wild and  _biotic_. That trait never went away, no matter how hard she tried to pretend it wasn't there.

Curiously, it was the very biotics that convinced Anna Konstantinovna to consent to Yelena's insistence: the realization that a biotic is highly unlikely to be snowed with proposals, unless from military guys who fear nothing and no-one.

During her years in the army, Yelena has been home exactly three times, the outcome invariably the same: every conversation turning to Zhenya's twins, and fallaciously inconspicuous questioning about "boys".

Oh, Yelena might have told  _mama_  quite a lot about  _malchiki_ : those who avoided her as if she had leper at the high school, and those who were all too eager to get her laid, so that they could boast the next day how they did it with a biotic and pretend not to see her when they met in the school canteen afterwards.

Blessed be the day when she took up the military training because such boys were there no more, or at least not that many, and when she hangs out with Iaeda and Shepard, or anyone else from the crew, she can get drunk and not worry that someone might take a chance on her.

Sure, Toshio would undoubtedly  _love_  to if she let him, and Connor likewise, even though he generally holds back, and she is  _almost entirely_ sure that neither would dump her afterwards, but –

Blinking, she realizes the sudden silence and that the two objects of her thoughts are watching her with concern.

"Yelenochka?" Squatting on the floor, Toshio slightly leans on her bed. "Have I upset you?"

 _No, not you._ Mama  _did, when I made the mistake of mentioning the two of you. She would have me_ pick _…_ "Ah, sod off, you're impossible."  _You're so cute,_ mama _would bounce with joy if I brought one of you home, either of you, '_ pashla b' vzamuzh, Yelochka...'

"Heard what the lady said? Sod off, idiot, before you make it worse."

"Mind your own business, Shepard. Are we good, Yela?"

He quickly evades as she slaps him over the hands. "Get your paws off my bed, I know your little tricks."

Grinning, Toshio backs away and Connor shakes his head. "I can kill him for you," he offers.

She pretends to be considering the offer. "You'd splatter your blues with gore," she finally rules regretfully, "that's not worth it."

Toshio glares at her. "I heard that, you know."

"Go get a cold shower, you're getting excited," Yelena deadpans.

"Aye aye, ma'am," he grabs a towel –  _her_  towel – and stalks towards the doorway, absolutely ignoring her indignant protests.

"Weren't you offering to avenge me just a moment ago?" she starts at Connor who apparently enjoys the show.

"You refused," he reminds her infuriatingly calmly. He smooths his jacket, ready to play an exemplary officer again. "I'll go get the shoreleave arranged… you really sure you don't want to see your folks? The two of us could stay back not to cause any public embarrassment."

 _Sure, to spend the time arguing with_ mama,  _and_ dyadya  _would just read his books and ignore everything else as always, and Marusya…_

Even auntie Marusya, who had complimented her on the short haircut and took her side in the heated argument over the biotic studies, winked at her and told her to bring home a marine… _'Or two, and I'll help you pick.'_

_No way._

Yelena Ivanovna Denisova produces a cold stare. "You got hard of hearing, Shepard? Terra Nova. We're going to Terra Nova. You and Iaeda are a walking disaster, I won't risk you anywhere within a light year from my family."

* * *

The place at Terra Nova is as much fun as the brochure promised. Experiencing a big tourism boom, the accommodation is cheap: the three-bedroom apartment they rented is not big but cosy and still leaves them plenty of credits to spend on practically everything they fancy - in Yelena's case, fancy clothes. This year's trend seems to be minimalism: the maximum effect with minimum cloth. That suits her, the stuff won't take up much space in her locker and can always be combined with a jumper or jacket in years to come, to produce the desired effect at an unexpected moment of casually taking off the  _decent_  layer.

As it turns out, male fashion is much more conservative (despite her best attempts to goad Toshio into buying a minimalistic silver "case", as he calls it, he goes for a disappointingly boring model of swimming trunks while Connor produces something that may have seen the siege of Shanxi), and so she decides to make up for the lack of invention and buys an awesome red terranovan version of bikini: two strategically tiny bits at the upper front, one at the bottom front, and strings in between. The amount of time she had to spend arranging these correctly while trying on the bikini in the shop almost made her reconsider - on the other hand, seeing Connor and Toshio turn slightly flushed and shift in that specific stance screaming wide and far "no-I'm-not-masking-my-erection" after she walked out of the changing room sealed the deal.

Two hours later, however, she was already regretting it. In her shopping spree, she didn't realize the very predictable outcome, and after Toshio attempted to untie the strings for the umpteenth time, she was already fuming secretly.

No way was she letting the bastard win, though, and buy another swimsuit.  _No. Fucking. Way._

 _No fucking way,_ she repeats to herself, gritting her teeth, as she evades yet another attempt whole two days later. The kick she aims at Shepard's shin is far from playful and he yelps quite satisfactorily, which improves her mood just till the next attempt. She has been playing along the whole time, fun and what not, taking it out only at a poor marine who pressed too close to her in the bar yesterday evening, and she has scored several times herself, improving Tosh's tequilla with half the content of the salt caster and adding sand to his toothpaste, but ever since Connor went from making snarky comments into joining the tease, apparently finding it too much fun to resist, she is nearing a point of explosion.

On that third day, just as she is about to dive into the water from the pier at the end of the beach, Yelena finds her precious red bikini half-leaving its position again and decides that enough is enough. Those two idiots have missed all the warning signs, and when they swim to her, apparently with some more jackassing on their minds, she _pulls_.

There are no swimmers close, the glow of the mass effect field is obscured by the water, and it doesn't last long - long enough only to get Shepard and Iaeda gasping and coughing after she lets them resurface, and hang onto the pier for quite some time.

"Peace," Toshio gasps when he catches his breath. "Peace, Yelochka, have mercy..."

Connor, coughing even more, only raises his hand in the traditional gesture of surrender. "Fuck, Yela, you nearly drowned us," he manages only after a while.

"That can easily be rectified," she purrs, sprawling on the warm stones of the pier and exposing everything that the bikini reveal.  _Just you dare to splash me_ , she thinks, and is not surprised when neither does.

After the incident, a very pleasant afternoon follows, with swims and dives and a ride in a small pedal boat, with Shepard and Iaeda doing all the hard work. As could have been expected, the ride ends with toppling over, in which Yelena's participation played no small part.

All in all, a wonderful day.

Finally, pleasantly tired and still dripping wet from the last dip, they make their way back to their apartment along the beach.

Walking a little ahead as they are passing a swimming pool belonging to some fancy hotel, Yelena thinks too hard about the fun to do in the evening and doesn't notice as Connor and Toshio exchange glances and start stalling; doesn't hear their running bare feet until they are right behind her, and all she knows next is that she is suddenly hoisted into the air and the three of them plunge into the pool with a profound splash.

When she resurfaces and shakes the water from her eyes and ears, Connor and Toshio are laughing like idiots, and the splashed tourists on the chairs and benches round the pool are cursing and yelling, and, of course, her bikini is all unstrung and floating somewhere under her arms – "

" _You fucking morons!_ " she yells in frustration: there is no way she can arrange the thing where it belongs with all those people staring –

 _Gosh, some look really pissed,_ she thinks, and then,  _oh, shit,_  as she sees an officer in navy blues – in  _very_  wet navy blues – standing at the edge of the pool, looking down at them, even before Connor turns red like a tomato and stutters: "Er…hello, Mom."

* * *

Not bothering to turn on the lights, Yelena kicks off her sandals and barefoot walks over to the kitchen; with the window set to translucent, the neons and streetlights provide sufficient illumination. She pours herself a generous glass of cold pommegranate juice and leans against the fridge.

_Wow, what a wonderful evening._

Once the incident at the pool was settled, with profound apologies for her splashed uniform, it turned out that Mama Shepard dropped in for a little surprise visit, taking advantage of the  _SSV Orizaba'_ s need to resupply.

Yelena snorts into her glass.  _Sure. Universe preserve to think that she just came to check who her little boy hangs out with_.

Toshio, the bastard, immediately switched into the charming mode, apparently in hope for a second chance at a good first impression, while Yelena was too busy getting herself draped in a small towel and Connor's T-shirt. - Not that she would have minded making the short distance to the apartment stark nude, but Captain Shepard might have got  _ideas_.

Which she did, anyway, starting with inviting them all for a dinner.

Of course, they didn't go to a bar but to some quiet classy restaurant, and Yelena had turned her locker upside down looking for something at least distantly appropriate to wear to a dinner with your friend's mother. - Now, not that she considers Connor anywhere close to a boyfriend but from her experience, mothers always evaluate the likes of her in that particular and rather unfavourable light. The whole evening then, while Toshio behaved as if Mama Shepard was his long-lost favourite auntie, and Connor seemed at ease, laughing, joking, touching his mother's hand every now and then, Yelena remained alert for those tale-telling tiny signs of disapproval she had seen from her schoolmates' mothers  _ad nauseam_. The fact that she didn't seem to be getting any just yet made it even worse; she had seen that, as well, and it was only worse for that.

 _Especially when the woman looked as if she was trying to be_ genuinely _nice, asking about_  mama  _and_ dyadya  _and what not... like_ Mama _Shepard did..._

Mama _._

Seeing Connor so... affectionate... with his mother reminded her that she can't recall when she sat and talked with  _her_  mother like that. Did she ever? When she was little, Zhenya was the  _mama's_  girl, not Yela; as a teenager, they clashed a hundred times a day; when she left for the army, they have barely talked since. Marusya was the one Yelena confided to and chatted with over the cup of tea till an unholy hour...  _tyotya_  Marusya,  _dushen'ka_. Unable to conceive due to a childhood accident, Yela was the daughter she never had.

Feeling her eyes sting suddenly, Yelena curses under her breath and sniffs.

 _Connor was right, I should have gone to Elysium,_ she finally admits to herself.  _Or I should at least call... to tell them..._

_Damn..._

Yelena is the first to admit that she is stubborn to a fault - a highly useful trait for dealing with biotics but hampering the relationships time and again.

_I should have gone to see them all..._

Memories fleet before her eyes, of smiles and embraces and such little moments she perhaps never remembered before.

Her throat tightens and the tears are about to spill over. She quickly downs the juice and refills the glass, taking care not to spill a single drop: the focus helps her get over the emotions. Wiping her nose, she squares her shoulders slightly. Damn, she's on a shoreleave, she's to have fun, not beat herself over a fault. Perhaps the evening is not entirely lost yet. Perhaps she could just change and find out where Toshio went after they left the restaurant to leave the Shepards some time to themselves. She could have some fun dancing and finally get herself some cute guy to fondle.

Yes, that would be nice. No use to snivel here: what's done is done, and she's a soldier, a fucking biotic. She'll have a nice evening now and call home the first thing in the morning.

To confirm her decision, she is about to empty the glass again but her hand stops in mid-air, hearing muffled voices in the corridor before their apartment, which immediately gain volume as the door opens and let them in: Connor and Hannah.

Both unaware of Yelena's presence, as she is hidden from sight by the fridge even in full light now.

Frozen by shock, she misses the right moment to come out, and then it's too late as the two continue what they are at currently:

"Mom, we're definitely  _not_  having this conversation –"

"Oh, yes, we  _are_  – someone has to use their brains here since  _you_  are apparently thinking with your other bits!"

"Now, Mom – "

"Shut up, Connor Shepard, I'm not done with you yet! I'm not going to instruct my grown-up son where to dip his wick and I absolutely do not care if you do it in twos or threes or whatever you fancy but I'd much like to remind you that you're a  _soldier_ , by your own choice, and that there are  _rules_ , you know, which you have willingly chose to obey – "

"Mom, we're  _not_  fraternizing, it was just fun –"

"And you think this fun of yours will go unnoticed if you do things like this in a public place? You think it won't ever come back to bite you in your ass if you pursue your career in the military? Are you going to tell everyone who throws this into your face that it's not what it looks like? Did I really raise you an idiot? Universe be blessed for the modern contraceptives, because with this attitude, the three of you would end up running paternity tests which one of you knocked her up!"

Yelena feels her cheeks flush with heat, and is sure that she must be the colour of the pommegranate juice by now. Judging by his voice, Connor doesn't fare much better: "Mom, please. We're just friends, really. Just friends."

 _And now comes the usual part about the bad friends and bad influence,_  Yelena thinks cynically. The situation is so awkward that it borders on comical; the next step, discovering her eavesdropping behind the fridge, is bound to happen soon. Shrugging, she sips the juice to relieve her dried throat - and the next moment, she nearly chokes on it.

"'Just friends'? So that's your idea of friendship? To let your friends behave irresponsibly? And how do you think your  _friend_  Yelena must have felt when the two of you embarrassed her in public, huh?"

Silence, in which Yelena suddenly feels on the verge of tears again. Just as she is about to step out and stutter whatever incoherent apology she might put together, a loud bleep sounds, and Hannah grunts in a totally different tone, "what the hell -"

Before Yelena figures out what it means, her own omnitool issues a similar sound: an urgent alert.

_What the fu- oh, shit. Shit. Shit._

On the legs which suddenly weigh like lead, Yelena makes two steps to get from behind the fridge.

"I, eh... I didn't mean to..." she makes an uncertain gesture with the glass as both Shepards stare at her, gaping, and then, the alert sounds the third time, on Connor's omnitool. While he gladly take the excuse to start hassling with the 'tool to hide his embarrassment, Hannah steps forward.

"I'm sorry that you had to hear that," she says softly but firmly, and Yelena takes a breath to reply that it's her who is at fault, always is, but she never has the chance to continue as Connor sharply inhales.

"Oh, my God... Mom, look at your tool! Yela..." he looks at her, his eyes wide with shock.

"What?" she says roughly, presuming that the triple alert is yet another of Toshio's inane jokes.

Hannah, however, activates her omnitool, and her brows fly up instantly. After that, she produces a curse Yelena wouldn't have expected her to know at all. "Batarians have attacked Elysium! All shoreleaves are cancelled, we must -"

She says more, and Connor says he's sorry, and they both keep talking, but Yelena doesn't really hear anything past the first sentence. _Attacked? Elysium? Batarians? Batarians attacked Elysium? That's where_ mama _is. Marusya. Dyadya. Elysium. No, that's bullshit. Iaeda has gone too far this time. It cannot be..._

_Batarians have attacked Elysium._

Mama...

Yelena's hands fly to her mouth, as if to hold back a scream that never comes out, while the glass and its content splatter on the floor, spraying everything with red droplets. The next moment, Hannah Shepard steps in, her arms, strong but gentle, holding Yelena's numb shoulders, pulling her closer. "They will be alright, girl, you must not give up on hope. They will be alright."

Her soothing voice comes to Yelena as if muffled through a blanket, as her mind is stuck on a single intuitive realization: somehow, she knows already that they won't.

When the confirmation comes, she knows already.

* * *

QUERY NO46579812AD58

RECEIVED 03/27/2176 12:49:09

FROM: DENISOVA, YELENA IVANOVNA

SUBJECT: STATUS OF

*DENISOVA, ANNA KONSTANTINOVNA, ID 58879653AMOND58

*DENISOV, FYODOROVICH IVAN, ID 357586WEOEK44566

*FEDOSEYEVA, MARIYA KONSTANTINOVNA, ID 558967355DJKRN25

REDIR

MERGE

QUERY NO46579995ER06

RECEIVED 03/27/2176 18:02:31

FROM: DENISOVA-O'TOOLE, YEVGENIYA IVANOVNA

* * *

REPLY

STATUS:

DENISOVA, ANNA KONSTANTINOVNA, ID 58879653AMOND58 DECEASED 03/27/2176

DENISOV, FYODOROVICH IVAN, ID 357586WEOEK44566 DECEASED 03/27/2176

FEDOSEYEVA, MARIYA KONSTANTINOVNA, ID 558967355DJKRN25 DECEASED 05/27/2176

NOTE:

Fedoseyeva, Mariya Konstantinovna, ID 558967355DJKRN25 was recovered with 2nd and 3rd degree burns on 40% of the body. Died at Vera Illinescu Memorial Hospital, Prendze, Elysium.

* * *

Source: Lazarus_Project/Secondary_files/Psychological_profile/Section_C


	4. Guarding Your Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard post-Akuze.

The man in navy blues who is her son pauses as he sees her in the lounge, and then resumes that slow, as if dreamy walk towards her, and the sight of him makes Hannah's heart wrench.

Connor never used to walk like that.

Never.

As a child, he was agile and fast, though rather short for his age, and unhappy for it, until he grew up quickly, almost overnight, when he had almost given up hope that he ever would. After that, followed a period of clumsiness: like a pup of some big dog, with paws too large and limbs too long and not really knowing how to master them. It's a time Hannah remembers fondly: as a side-effect, the clumsiness produced a sort of shy charm, so endearing as it reminded her of his first attempts at walking when barely one year old. Then, almost overnight again, he suddenly became a man like his father had been, strong and graceful, and walked with strides full of self-confidence and energy.

Neither is there now, and he walks with the steps of a stranger.

He stops a few – too many – steps from her. "Hello, mom. You didn't tell me you were coming."

 _Of course not. You would have told me not to._  "Hello, son. The  _Orizaba_ was due for repairs, so I took a few days off." It was the other way round, but it doesn't really matter. Hannah crosses the remaining space to embrace him, reluctant or not, and he duly offers his cheek for a kiss. The gesture hides the fresh scars from sight, and she holds to him tighter than she intended.

Almost immediately he moves to release himself. "Mom… not here, please."

His voice is tense and Hannah sees that most of the unnatural calmness is a sham. "Of course. Let's move out, you must be sick of hospitals."

He only nods and they set out, two officers in their blues, walking side by side, impersonally. The silence lingers.

"I've rented a small flat in a quiet neighbourhood, near a park, so we can go over there... or have you found a place to stay already?"

Connor shakes his head.

"There are two bedrooms, you can stay till you find something more to your liking, or as long as you want, the rent can be prolonged after I leave."

"Perhaps," he says blandly.

"Or are you hungry? Would you like to stop for a meal somewhere?"

"I… no, mom, I'm not hungry. Your place will be fine."

Running out of momsy topics, Hannah remains silent. She has spoken to him before, and to the doctors, as well; she knew what to expect. It's no easier for her to cope with the wall of silence for that, though.

They exit the elevator and walk along a short corridor, the large window panes offering a view of a small park within the hospital block. A nice, quiet place for recovery, only now it contains some wasps in its honey.

The corridor outs into the passage to the main entrance, and this is there the wasps have flocked, with their microphones and camera drones. "Damn them reporters," Hannah mutters, rather annoyed, as she glimpses them from the last windows. Doctor Flores had assured her that the day of Connor's release from the hospital care would remain confidential; apparently, someone took care that it didn't. "Let's deal with them quick and –"

Seeing Connor turn ghastly pale freezes the words in her mouth. With disbelief, she sees the sheen of perspiration on his face, his eyes, dilating, flickering wildly.

It is only a matter of time before they are spotted.

"Connor," she takes him by the arm, "I know that you don't feel up to this but we can –"

"Can't… I can't, not any more…" his voice is deformed by numb lips and, to her horror, he looks as if he is about to faint.

"Connor Shepard," she says somewhat more sharply than she wanted, "don't tell me that you'd freak out because of some stupid reporters!"

His eyes barely focus on her. "Get me out of here… please…"

"Connor!"

_Gosh, if the reporters see him like this…_

Digging her fingers into his arm, she gives him a sharp yank, and when that doesn't work, she barks into his face: "Pull yourself together, Lieutenant! Now! That's an order!"

That does it – for a moment, he looks as if she had struck him, but he has snapped from whatever it was that held him, and Hannah presses on: "Calm down. Breathe. We'll go through this together. Whatever they ask, you have just been released, you are still recovering, you thank them for their attention, fullstop. If they want mission details, they are to address the army PR guys. If they are bothersome, I'll deal with them. Is that clear? – Is that clear?" She repeats when he doesn't respond immediately, while seeing peripherally the crowd ripple with excitement and all heads turn towards them.

"…yes. Yes, mom."

"Good. Breathe. You can do this. Now, offer me an arm and we're good to go."

Together, they walk towards the buzzing cameras.

* * *

Hannah sighs with relief only after the rented skycar, running on autopilot, steers into one of the highways. Connor sits motionless, staring ahead, his hands clasped in his lap: a picture of false serenity. He doesn't look at her even when she addresses him.

"Connor," she tries again, touching his shoulder; he makes only the tiniest gesture of recognition.

Hannah bites her lip. The psychologist, Ivan Kutsyk, gave her quite a detailed overview, and outlined strategies to deal with this, but, damn, this is her  _son_.

Besides, a soldier also knows that the time for a breach comes when there is a weakness, and subtlety be damned.

"Son… won't you tell me what the hell has just happened?"

The response is a bit more than she wanted.

"Tell you?" he issues a sound between laughter and a sob. "Tell you? Isn't that funny how that's the only thing everyone ever wants? 'Tell me this' and 'tell me that', does no-one really give a fuck that perhaps I'd rather  _not_  tell, for a change?"

Taken aback by the outburst, she doesn't respond, and Connor rakes the suddenly trembling fingers through his hair.

"Every single fucking day, someone comes prodding at me and wants me to  _tell_ , really, no pressure at all, why the fuck can't you all just leave me alone? 'Tell us how you feel, Lieutenant', how the fuck they think I might feel? As if it wasn't enough that I see it every night –"

The hands, stopping in mid-gesture, fly to cover his face.

Slowly, feeling as if she was walking a minefield, Hannah places her hands over his. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but don't hide from me. Don't act as if I've never seen you cry, silly."

He resists a little longer, but after the weeks on the edge, plagued by constant nightmares, he gives in. He lets his hands down, lets his guards down, lets her embrace him and lets tears go.

Rocking him gently, Hannah leans her cheek against the top of his head and waits for the surge of emotions to wear off. Finally, when the sobs subside and he moves away a little, she procures a tissue.

"Thanks," he mutters, wiping his face and blowing his nose. He rakes his fingers through his hair again. "Sorry for that, mom."

"That's alright."

"No, it's not. You didn't deserve that. It's –" he raises his hand to his eyes and lets it fall back. "I – I'm afraid that I am starting to lose my mind, mom. It keeps coming back, every night, even with pills I get only a couple of hours of sleep, and then, I'm back there again and live it all through till I wake up screaming. I can't get it off my mind at night, and they have me constantly come back to it at day, all the time. Even when Kutsyk says that we can talk something else, it's the sole reason why he is there in the first place, so it's really no use, it's still there and won't go away."

"Now that you have been released from hospital, it should be easier to distract yourself," Hannah remarks. "Hospitals are crazy even under more normal circumstances."

"So I keep telling myself. I'm still to have those sessions with Kutsyk, though – I'm off the duty until he gives me a go." He casts a sidelong glance at her. "Did he tell you about that incident with that reporter?"

"Which reporter?"

Connor closes his eyes and leans his head against the seat. "A couple of days ago, a girl from some local network sneaked into the hospital… into my room. She pretended to be a nurse, you know, but she had a camera and… 'tell our viewers how you feel, Lieutenant'." He shakes his head. "I think I started yelling at her… I don't really remember what exactly. I lost there the whole unit, my best friends… is that really so difficult to figure out how I feel about that?"

His voice quavers and Hannah takes him by the hand, seeing new tears escape from under the closed lids.

"You know what happened to Toshio and Yelena?" he asks almost inaudibly.

She does; she clearly remembers the two of them, so cheerful and full of life on that shoreleave on Terra Nova… the gruesome details of their deaths cut deep.

Connor is breathing raggedly. "If anyone asked me that…" He doesn't finish, and only after a while says in a more normal voice: "I wouldn't have coped with those reporters if you hadn't been there, mom."

"I was. Don't flagellate yourself over 'ifs', Connor Shepard, that's the surest way to hell."

"No big difference, I feel like I'm already there, I can tell you," he mutters.

"You can?"

Realizing what he has said, he laughs a little. "I do. Now, could we call this a day and really, really talk something else? I need a break, mom."

"Of course. That's what I'm here for, silly."

* * *

At the rented apartment, they change from their blues and spend the rest of the day outdoors: a mother and her son, holding their hands while walking; an arm around each other's shoulders when sitting on a bench. They stop for dinner in a small restaurant; she has a small beer, Connor doesn't, because of the medication.

The whole rest of the day, they talk: fun staff and reminiscences, current issues, the past, the future… and each and every topic, no matter how distant, inevitably goes on a tangent, touching on something related to the raw memory of Akuze.

The first time it happens, Connor falls silent in mid-sentence, with an expression of despair; but Hannah's arm is firm around his shoulders, and after a while, he finishes what he was saying.

Other such instances go more smoothly after that.

As the day passes into the night, they prepare for bed early. Connor takes long: the healed scars will require tending for some time yet. Hannah makes use of the time he spends in the bathroom doing her correspondence and making a few necessary calls; when he emerges with an apologetic grin, she pretends a frown. "Stalling again, Connor Shepard?"

He laughs at that: the evasive actions he used to do as a boy only to get to bed as late as possible certainly never faded from memory but then his expression freezes. "Gosh, am I?" he mutters.

Hannah deactivates her tool and walks over to him. "No way I'm  _carrying_  you to your bed."

That produces a faint smile in response.

She accompanies him to the bedroom and kisses him for good night.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes in his hand the pills prepared on the bedside table. As she fetches him a glass of water, he looks up at her. "What a commanding officer would I make if I wake up screaming every night?"

"That will pass, son," she says with every ounce of assurance she can gather, "that will pass."

"When?" he mutters as he swallows the dose.

"With time," she answers softly. Months after Fareed's accident, she still had nightmares of burning ships; she never told Connor.

She also used to have nightmares of losing  _him_  after that, as well, her tender boy; she never told him, either.

In those years, Connor used to have nightmares of his own: childish fantasies of lurking monsters which inhabited the darkspace and crept out at night. Time and again, he would come snuggling to her in the middle of the night, for comfort.

These did pass, as well, with time.

Hannah feels her throat tighten. "Make me some space," she says.

When they lie side by side, she pulls the blanket over them: the long-forgotten familiarity even more awkward for his broad shoulders and his head heavy on her arm. She can't help but start giggling at the silliness, and Connor joins her: soft, relaxed laughter.

"Mom," he says after a while, watching the shadows cast by the decorated shade of the night lamp. "I'm glad you're here."

Her throat tightens. "Always, sweetheart. Always." Her right hand meets his left, entwining their fingers… feeling the uneven skin underneath.

"Will you sing to me?" he asks softly.

 _Sing to me_. Adventure stories were for the beddy time; whenever he woke up from a bad dream, it was a time for singing.

She could tell him that she has no power to keep his nightmares at bay. Or that he is a man grown, and grown-ups do not cope with their fears like that. She could resort to the rational, reiterate the psychological lecture of processing trauma and survivor's guilt.

Hannah relieves her throat: she hasn't sung in years. The simple melody of the first lullaby that she recollects is uneven and rasp until she manages to relax her vocal chords and give at least some semblance of purity to her weak voice.

She sings, letting everything go. There's only the song, and the memory of the boy snuggling to her, warming up and relaxing while falling asleep. She always waited then a little longer, listening to his even breath, savouring his warmth against her, before she carefully carried him back to his own bed.

When she runs out of songs, Connor is fast asleep. She carefully removes her arm from under his head and sits on the bed, rubbing the numb muscles. Then she turns to him to watch him asleep: she hasn't had the chance in years. The night lamp casts long shadows of his nose and brows, his eyes sinking in darkness; the light adds softness to the cheekbones and jaw with the ever-present stubble that always grew faster than he could manage to shave.

Then, the one thing she cannot get accustomed to: running from the temple all the way down, the scar.

With time and money and many more plastic surgeries, it might eventually be almost invisible, Doctor Flores told her. It's not particularly disfiguring even as it is now, though; despite the prolonged time between the injury and the treatment, the modern medicine and technology have considerably mitigated the effects of the acid splash, even with the much worse burns on the arm and shoulder. No discomfort, no loss of functionality… the scars are now merely a cosmetic defect.

The scars.

Hannah has to resist the urge to cup his face and cover that offence to the youthful skin, reminding her with every look that mere few inches, and he would have lost his eye; he would have –

She would have lost him.

The tears she has been keeping at bay the whole day finally spill but she doesn't cry long: in his presence, with his calm breath, induced by the sedatives, fear and pain are washed away more easily.

' _Time and peace are now of essence,'_  Doctor Flores told her, and Doctor Kutsyk kept nodding to it.  _'Time and peace and gradual regaining of confidence.'_

Somehow, Hannah suspects that during that single day together, Connor has told her more than he had told Kutsyk in weeks, but while this might be the start, the end is still a long way to go.

Studying her son's face, she cannot help but ponder how this all is going to play out: time and peace may not be enough if there is not the will to drive the healing process. Does he have it in him? Will and determination have already kept him alive but to survive is not the same as to live on. As they talked, Connor did touch on the subject of future several times – the return to duty, the mind-blowing possibility of the ICT course – but these sounded as options so far in time that they did not really relate to him, Lieutenant Connor Shepard, grounded and burdened by his nightmares.

Never before had he been put to such a test.

When Fareed's ship exploded due to the mass core malfunction – ironically, just two months after the First Contact War ended, which he had survived without as much as a scratch – Connor was too young to be deeply traumatized by the loss, and until recently, his life never poised any real obstacle to him. He did show dogged determination to achieve that which he wanted time and again, but never did he have to pick himself up after being beaten. Hannah wonders if she perhaps didn't make a mistake, not really pressing him into challenges to utilize his potential to the full, well aware that with his natural talents, he often took up a rather relaxed attitude (and actually, the times when she did have to step in to put down his lazying with schoolwork were quite frequent after he reached puberty); the experience would have come handy.

Yet, she could not find it in her to choose what would have been best for him; the option was never hers. She never wanted him to live up to his father's memory but rather find his own course; she was proud of his achievements but never required them. She knows that Fareed's father mightily disapproved of her attitude, up to the point that their relationship, not particularly good to start with, as Jonathan Shepard apparently always thought her too bland for his dashing son, soured into a single call every couple of years or so. To a degree, she could understand the old man's grudge, but she was never willing to sacrifice Connor to his desire to make up for the fact that Fareed died a casualty instead of a hero.

Looking at her son's face, she sees little of Fareed in him except the colouring: it is her own broad set of jaw and cheekbones, even broader for his masculinity – barely a trace of Fareed's dark beauty from his mother's side.

The face of her son, strained now even in his sleep.

Strained and scarred but alive.

Yelena Denisova could only be identified by her DNA and Toshio's body was never found, along with the rest of those who died on Akuze.

Hannah knows that it doesn't matter to her if he ever returns to active duty, or resigns to pick up on a ship designer career as he once pondered, it only matters to her now that he lives, and she can only hope that whatever turn his life takes from now, he will be the one satisfied with it.

He only needs the time to pick himself from the ground to make that turn happen, and he has to do it on his own. She cannot keep bad things from happening to him no more than she could choose for him; she cannot keep his nightmares at bay… but she can be there for him, always, and offer a hand, or anything else that he might need and that is in her powers to give.

If time and peace are what he needs now, she will make sure that he gets them – oh, she  _will_.

* * *

_Coda I_

Universe apparently hates her, Khalisah al-Jilani sulks as she sees Lieutenant Shepard jogging in the park just under the window of her office the third day in a row.

First, there was the incident in the hospital when that old crone of a nurse hacked and smashed her camera. Then, Mr Burton yelled at her for getting her equipment damaged after she had to admit that not only had she failed to secure her scoop but had no report for the evening news, either. Next, he yelled at her some more and threatened to sack her because a doctor from the hospital raised an official complaint for the breach of privacy. Finally, she had to make up stupid excuses which no-one believed, anyway, when she turned up for work with a black eye because she couldn't possibly tell anyone that Mommy Shepard paid her a visit and punched her in the eye in a way of greeting.

And, as if that was not enough, the next day she saw the Shepards strolling in the park, just where she could see them whenever she raised her head from her 'tool.

Her first impulse was to scream and kick her table in frustration – an impulse she quickly suppressed as she couldn't afford to give Mr Burton any pretext to carry out his threats. Her second impulse, to make the shot of the two with her omnitool, had to be abandoned, as well, because while 'don't you dare to mess with my son again, ever' was a rather vague instruction, the list of repercussion was very detailed, and extensive.

So, she just returned to proofreading the scripts for  _Pet Time!_  while fuming secretly, and every time she glimpsed the Shepards, she just lowered her head more and pondered over a more fitting phrase for "magnificently curled fur".

A couple days later, Mommy Shepard seemed to be around no more (while the black eye took much longer to leave) and Khalisah had plenty of opportunity to watch Shepard on his own, sitting and watching a small shadowed lake for hours, or walking around the park slowly and without any purpose. Unfortunately, Mr Burton made clear that his news company didn't need another scandal for messing with the Troubled Hero and the occasion to shoot hours of material was thus wasted, day after day.

Then came yet another day when she wanted to yell in frustration and this time she didn't hold back, as the whole crew was out, shooting the aftermath of a freighter accident at the spaceport, and Anneylou Voranski had just gone to fetch some  _taccos_  for lunch. Khalisah yelled every single vulgarism she knew, including some extraterrestrial ones she had picked in the vids, seeing Shepard suddenly rise from the bench, toss a twig he had been toying with into the lake and stride away energetically, while she wasn't ready to document it.

Her hopes surged a little bit when he did return to the park on the following day, apparently taking up exercise, and Khalisah had to rub her reminding eye to distract her hands itching for a camera which she didn't have.

Since then, watching the man has become her daily obsession, together with saving up like mad to buy new equipment.

When she finally does get the camera, Shepard stops coming.

Khalisah promises herself never, ever, to be deterred from making a shot again, by anything.

* * *

_Interlude_

Glancing from the crumpled reporter to Shepard striding ahead, Garrus decides that it might be wiser to shut up for the time being, and bring the issue up only when it becomes clear that no angry crowds or C-Secs are after them.

"That was somewhat… unexpected," he comments to Shepard's back when he finally deems the time right. "I wouldn't have thought you had this in you."

Shepard slightly pauses in midstep. "Well, you weren't quite an amateur vigilante when I met you, either."

Garrus' mandibles twitch. "Are there supposed to be professional –"

A look. "They're called police, I believe. The ones you quit with."

Feeling as if he suddenly became the one under scrutiny, Garrus tries not to sound irritated. "I am far from condemning your action but one must inevitably wonder whether this was wise, given your… status."

Shepard stops so abruptly that the turian almost hits into him, but when he turns he seems strangely calm. "It was long coming. It was well-deserved, it felt right and I don't regret a thing – sounds familiar? As for the wisdom of the action, between a suicide mission and a court martial, I find myself not giving a fuck. Got a problem with that?"

_Got a problem with that, Mr Archangel? You who actually left bodies on the floor, not just one punched reporter, for exactly the same reasons, and was never called out on that?_

Garrus shuffles uneasily. Though his failure still plagues him with nightmares, one thing he can tell for sure: he doesn't regret a thing. Cautiously, he says: "Well, if you feel it was deserved…"

Shepard rubs his hand. "You bet." He takes a deep breath. "I missed a couple of birthdays and Christmases while I was…out…, so I'm not going to lose any sleep over compensating myself a bit."

* * *

_Coda II_

The Bay 38 and its access are, of course, a restricted and heavily guarded area, as well as the neighbouring ones, but that doesn't really bother Tali: two bays higher, she still sees what she needs to, the Alliance transport ship and the clusters of reporters in the bays next to it and above, their long-range cameras already positioned and focused.

 _Universe preserve that they missed a thing,_ she thinks bitterly, and then smirks under her face mask as her omnitool receives a confirming  _ping_  from Kasumi:  _ready._

Excitement washes over the crowds of reporters as a C-Sec vehicle, heavily guarded, arrives at Bay 38, and Alliance guards steps forward. Tali doesn't hear what is being said as the reporters drone frantically into their microphones, but she can guess well enough: the Hero of the Citadel arrested on the charges of genocide and terrorism leaves little space for imagination. She can see the scandal-thirsty  _bosh'tets_  leaning forward, pointing… and she can see Shepard, getting out of the vehicle –  _keelah, restrained like some base criminal!_  – to be escorted to the ship.

Her fingers move almost before the brain marks the information.

_Sorry to disappoint: no main news today._

The sounds of excitement turning into the howls of frustration are the sweetest music to her ear, as the smoke and sparkles from the overloaded cameras engulf the reporters.

With Kasumi's help at another strategic point, making one big hacking sweep was an easy cake.

Her comm comes to life with a crack of static: Kasumi's cloaking always causes some deficiencies in transmissions. "Nice fireworks," the thief chuckles. "Shall I upload you some shots? Khalisah al-Jilani stomped over her PDA."

"Perhaps later," Tali declines, wondering whether there might be a single thing the thief would take seriously, "I have work to do."

"No change of mind? Well, have your fun with the Alliance. I'll send you the pics when they won't compromise you."

" _Keelah se'lai_ ," Tali mutters, and then sends confirmation on her omnitool:  _on my way_.

Unlike most of the crew and team who chose to disembark on Omega rather than deal with the Alliance investigation, Tali decided to stay till the Citadel. She is not Alliance, after all, and unlike the others, has no criminal record or activities to answer for, and if Shepard stood by her in her court hearing, she owes him no less than provide her own testimony before she leaves for the Flotilla.

The security before Anderson's door give her a pointed look, and Udina starts about Cerberus associates right away, but she cannot care less. "I don't know what  _you_  might know about Cerberus associates, Ambassador," she says sweetly, " _I_  worked for the Council Spectre," and watches him go a few shades more purple.

Anderson, though clearly worried, chuckles at that softly. "True enough, Ambassador. Miss Zo'rah is clear to go as soon as she provides her testimony. – By the way, nice work in the dock, Tali – but you wouldn't know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Of course not, Councillor."

"Pity. I heard there was some fun stuff with the reporters there."

Seeing Anderson all but wink at her, Tali smiles behind her mask. With a friend like that, perhaps Shepard will sleep just a little better, during whatever awaits him.


	5. Remembering the Delta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Thessia.

The air is full of dust, and someone is moaning nearby; shots and explosions are resounding close, as well, with echoes of screams, and that skull-piercing sound of Destroyers, tearing her homeland apart.

Coughing, Liara scrambles to her feet, and with no regard for her own safety, she skids to the crater which has torn the floor of the temple, and there she sees him: hanging onto a beam, over the dark abyss of the lower levels. "Shepard!"

With pained effort, he moves up the beam till he can reach her hand, and she uses her biotics to help him up.

Almost immediately, he looks around, and through the opening in the temple dome, he sees the Cerberus shuttle, rising to the smoke-covered sky. "Damn! Why didn't you stop him instead of pulling me up!? Normandy! Pursue the shuttle, Leng has stolen the data!"

"Commander…" Joker's voice is barely distinguishable in the interferences. "The Reapers are closing in on your position… if we don't pick you up now you won't get out of there!"

Liara can't discern his expression through the visor of his helm as he looks around but sees what he does: Vega, lying motionless under a pile of rubble which Javik is struggling to remove; Garrus, holding his ribs, slowly limping towards them. When Shepard attempts to get up, he staggers, looking at the blood trickling from his leg.

"Alright, Joker," he mutters with his head lowered. "Come pick us up."

Liara doesn't recall hearing him sound so defeated ever before.

In the ruin of Thessia, his feelings mirror her own.

* * *

After their unsuccessful mission on Thessia, the Normandy sinks into gloomy silence. As soon as Chakwas tends to his wounds, Shepard goes straight to report; with the assistance of EDI as her partner in crime, Liara sees it all from her cabin, the full depth of despair. She doesn't know how he manages to keep his head up after that, to maintain a semblance of control before the crew, she only knows that when he finally retreats into his cabin, he sits with his head in his hands for eternity, while she blankly stares at her screens replaying that which she sees whenever she closes her eyes.

Later on, she sees him pacing, even though Chakwas has ordered him rest; she sees him attempting to meditate; she sees him tossing in the bed, sleepless.

When she sees him getting dressed again and heading for the war room in the middle of the night shift, she leaves her quarters, as well; the numerous screens, offering her every single aspect of the destruction of Thessia as picked from the remaining satellites, haunting her through the corridors.

Yet, when she arrives in the war room, Shepard is not there, and she finds him in the star lounge, sitting on the sofa, with the injured leg stretched.

"Don't get up," she stops him, and with hesitation, she walks over to him. "Am I interfering?"

"You never are." He is not looking at her and neither at the silent stars behind the observation window. "Why aren't you asleep, though? You should be resting."

"Look who is talking."

"Shoot me for that," he mutters but it sounds dull.

"Have you asked Doctor Chakwas for some sedatives?" she asks, even though she knows that he hasn't.

"No use, these. I wake up feeling as if I didn't sleep at all."

They sit in silence.

"Sorry for shouting at you, Liara," Shepard says softly after a while. "And… for failing you. I've killed us all." Only then, he finally looks at her. "We have already lost. We are being pushed back, slowly but steadily, and it's only a matter of time when our lines break. The data from Vendetta may have been our only chance, and I've lost it. Thessia has fallen for nothing."

She feels the same, seeing in her mind the burning tower blocks falling into their ruin, and still feeling the taste of burn on her tongue. But, for him, she says: "Not yet, Shepard. We're not dead yet. There is still some time left, we may still retrieve the VI."

"With no clue where to look, it will be too late."

The lump in her throat nearly choking her, she reaches for his hand and squeezes it tight. He responds, briefly, with desperate strength, and she withdraws, the thought how much is depending on the single man making her dizzy.

More silence, as they both know that the chances of discovering the Cerberus main base in time are next to zero.

As if suddenly remembering, Liara digs in her pocket, producing a small silver plastic tube. Spreading a little of its content on her fingers, she starts rubbing it into her temples, with a small sigh of relief.

"What is it?"

" _Myolaste_ ," she replies absent-mindedly. "It's a herb native to… Thessia."

"Ah. So that's what I smelled on you when you sat down. Quite… pleasant. What does it do?"

"The aromatic oils relieve headaches, and it's also a muscle relaxant. The smell is believed to relieve the mind, as well."

The effects of the whole mixture are, actually, even slightly narcotizing. With a little hesitation, she offers him the tube – with a little hesitation, Shepard takes it.

"Like this?" he puts a little on his temples, as well.

"Yes." Her data suggest that the substance might work more strongly for humans than the asari, though such a small amount will hardly suffice.

Side by side, they watch the cold stars in the darkness of space, the smell of  _myolaste_  reminding her of the forests of Armali, the walks on warm, sunny days, while Benezia was holding her hand –

Liara shudders and embraces herself. "I used to like the sight," she says, her voice terse, "but now I can think only about the monstrous ships coming to spread destruction –"

Shepard puts an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer for a moment. Then he gets up and limps to seal the shutters. "Let's go over to your place. We can –"

"No. Your place," she hears herself say. "I – I don't want to see all those screens – " She forces herself to take a breath and speak more calmly. "If you don't mind… the fishtanks are… calming."

"Of course not," he mutters. "Come, Liara."

As he leans to her to offer her an arm, she can smell the scent of  _myolaste_  on his skin.

_Goddess, what am I doing?_

* * *

"We asari have an affinity to the ocean," she says, watching the fish slowly circling in the lavish tanks. "Practically all of my favourite places are by the ocean."

Practically all of them have been destroyed by now, in Thessia's fall.

"I have little experience with ocean," Shepard replies. "I spent most of my life on ships and stations… except that time after the basic N-training. We were given a generous shoreleave afterwards… to get a chance to fall in love with the Earth, I presume. I spent most of it by the ocean, as it was rather unusual to me… so you could say it worked."

Liara doesn't dare to ask if he knows what became of the place; all of it and more was written in the tight lines in Anderson's face. Earth, Thessia, Palaven…

"I would like to show you something," she says softly, "in my mind, like when you let me examine your memories of the beacon."

They haven't joined their minds since then but the path to him is still familiar, even though the process is now reversed as she supplies her own memory.

For him, Liara recreates the memory of the river delta, flowing into the sea, with its reeds rustling in the wind, the distant rolling of waves and the calling of sea birds, the warm sand and the dunes covered with sturdy grass.

In her mind, Shepard gasps a little at the sudden change of the environment, touching with disbelief the grains of sand. "Is this… your memory?"

"Yes. We're not the drell to actually relive our memories, but… we can re-create them and share them with others. This… is a place where I spent a lot of time in my childhood."

The delta is now choking with dead fish, poisoned by the Reaper destruction upriver, the reeds consumed by fire and the birds dead or fled, but Liara is an asari and can compartmentalize her memories, keeping each intact and unstained, and for Shepard, she focuses on the warmth of the sun and the breeze, sounding the reeds, and doesn't let show the swollen asari bodies floating in the water.

"Why don't you lie down?" she suggests. "The sound of the sea might lull you to sleep."

' _Worth a try_ ,' she hears him think, ' _why not?'_

Maintaining the illusion, she leads him to his bed, the small silver tube slipping into her hand once more.

She draws strength from its touch.

Slowly, she places her hands on the sides of his neck, starting to rub the tense muscles. She feels him stiffen under her touch, and then relax with the guilty feeling that it should be him giving  _her_ comfort, not the other way round.

She loves him for that selflessness, but puts the feeling into the right compartment.

"Remove your shirt," she says after a while, and he complies with only the slightest reluctance. She is ' _only Liara_ _'_ , after all, and he finds nothing inappropriate in the request.

Some other time, the thought might hurt a little. Today, it's just another compartment, next to the one labelled Thessia.

Yet, seeing the red tattoo, like a stamp of property on his shoulder blade, she nearly backs out. Shakily, she takes a breath, and ignores the nagging thought. She is an asari, her control of her mind processes is strong, after all.

Compartmentalization is the key to everything.

Putting a generous dose of  _myolaste_  on her hands, she starts gently rubbing it into his back, feeling the pronounced muscles under the smooth skin, much smoother that the tiny asari scales. She knows that because of that, humans are referred to as "silks" in certain circles, though she finds the description inadequate. She relishes in the touch but does not let the feeling leak into the shared memory; she doesn't let show how the tattoo burns under her fingers with reproach.

She feels him relax some more under her fingers but the deep residuum of tension remains, the long-time stress and the fresh failure permeating every single layer of his consciousness. Were she a trained masseuse, she might be able to dissolve these without intruding on his mind; she might even succeed if she tried hard.

Instead, Liara's fingers delve into the muscles, releasing the tension of the body, knowing that the stress of the mind will eventually seek a way out.

Being an asari, she can compartmentalize: the image of  _another_ , leaning over his bare back, which inevitably resonates in his mind, never makes it into the river delta, into the touch of her fingers, ever so slightly changing the way of their touch.

She feels the tension shift and redirect, with the effect of  _myolaste_  slowly removing barriers. She closes her eyes, firmly putting the tattoo into its compartment, and lets her fingers probe and caress in a slow rhythm.

' _Shh… that's not real,'_  she casually replies when a thought half-forms at the edge of his consciousness and he slightly shifts his hips,  _'relax.'_

So very gently, she touches on Shepard's mind, enabling further and further barriers dissolve, letting the consciousness stream freely and relax to the mental and physical touch, while her own mind becomes a shielded wall, storing away the images of  _the other_  touching him.

It is the touch itself that matters, and it is  _her_  hands touching him now, slowly building the physical response while the mind gradually slips into the area between the sleep and waking. His breath becomes ragged, his body yielding to the touch of suppressed desires.

When she nudges him to roll over, he does, pulling her down along.

* * *

Inevitably, he comes to see her the first thing in the late morning, looking better for the sleep but with a deeply worried expression. "Liara… about the last night… I'm sorry."

For the hours of his sleep, she has been thinking and rehearsing what she would say; now that the moment has come, she feels her heart racing in her throat, feeling once again her old, awkward self.

"What for?" she asks softly, to gain time.

An embarrassed gesture. "For… using you like that."

_You used me the way I wanted, because I wanted._

Her mouth is completely dry but she mustn't let show. "I do not understand what you mean."

"Liara…"

"You've done nothing wrong."  _I did. Though you'd never suspect._

"Liara…"

As he opens his mouth to protest, she puts a finger over his lips. "You needed, and I could give, there's no more to it – and no less," she emphasizes, looking right into his eyes, well aware that blue eyes are subconsciously associated with innocence among humans, and that even though he knows her to be the Shadow Broker who has dealt life and death on daily basis, the image of the shy archaeologist as he first met her is still imprinted in his mind.

"No more and no less, between friends," she continues, making it sound as true as she can –

–  _because, it's not like that Commander Shepard just needed a fuck to be able to fall asleep –_

– "and I also needed," she finishes with a hint of tremble in her voice –

–  _which sounds much better than that I drugged the man I love because I cannot have him otherwise_ –

– "There's no need to apologize for anything. I don't feel any shame for what we did, and neither should you."

–  _because it doesn't really matter, the Reapers are here and we are losing, and we may both be dead before tomorrow_ –

Neither is true, though: it does matter, or else he wouldn't be  _Shepard_.

But, it's precisely such little lies that keep people going.

Barely daring to breathe, she awaits his response, while maintaining the gentle, unperturbed face: the image he has of her.

Gradually, some lines of worry in his face smooth out. "I still shouldn't have," he says softly. "I don't - I can't really -" He shakes his head in frustration. " Liara... would it be possible that - that  _myolaste_  stuff - "

"Oh -" she lets her hands fly to her mouth for a moment, and widens her eyes, knowing how much now depends on her performance. " _Oh._  That's - our physiologies are so similar, and  _myolaste_  is commonly used for massages... oh, Shepard, this is so awkward..."

It shouldn't be so easy, lying to him like this, but the trust he has in her blinds him to suspicion.

"I didn't mean to..." she produces with effort. "I mean -"  _I never meant any harm._  "I'm sorry, Shepard..."

_Liar, liar, liar._

Slowly, he raises his hands to cup her face and kisses her on the lips, and for a moment, her heart skips a beat.

The only kiss she has ever got from him, and ever will – kisses in the seeking of physical relief do not count.

A firm, dry kiss. From a friend, to a friend.

"It's alright. Thank you, Liara."

The dangerous moment is gone, though the shame over the deep feeling in his voice remains – and yet despite that, she has to hold herself back with all her might not to say that he is welcome and always will.

She knows that he never will again.

And so she smiles gently and nods, and tells him what Traynor and EDI are working on, and sees the old sparkle in his eye.

When he turns to leave, it is with the energetic determination that is so much his, and for a moment, Liara allows herself to think that it was worth it, even though she can see the tattoo gloat at her through his shirt.

Slowly, she brings her hands to her face, to smell the faint remains of  _myolaste_  on her fingers. She cups her cheeks the way his hands did, feeling the tears burn under her lids.

Then, finally, she goes to her bed to find some sleep, as well, if the image of the burnt delta lets her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myolaste - muscle-relaxant (Greek)
> 
> My thanks to Letticiae and Thanwen for betaing, and to Sharrukin for the concept of asari as space Greeks.


End file.
